by Tom Piazza
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gilman rode in again, over the din, “and the talking jackass in row twenty-five!” and was drowned out now by an even louder wave of approval, hollers, laughter, and shrieks. “Welcome once again to Barton’s Theatre, where only the finest in entertainment may be found. To-NIGHT it is our pleasure—nay, our great privilege—to present once again the sensation of the age, the toast of three continents, the preeminent delineators of Ethiopian melodies, here, for their second act—the Virginia Harmonists!”
A tidal wave rolled in over the final syllables, submerging the entire world under applause, screams, and hollers, a wall of sound, almost physical in its force. I stomped four times with my whole leg to set the rhythm visually for the others, since it was impossible to hear, and we launched into “Jenny Get Your Hoe Cake Done” as the curtain rose slowly in front of us to reveal a mob, cheering, cupping their hands around their mouths, some standing on the seats, clapping their hands over their heads, as far back into the cavernous hall as one could see.
I glanced quickly at Henry, who sat, slack-jawed, in his chair staring vacantly out at the audience, as we had planned it. Behind that mask, what was he seeing? What was he thinking? As I sang and played the bones, I saw and heard it through his eyes and ears—the five of us in the front line—angles, elbows, knees, bouncing—whack on the tambourine; bones clicking and arms crisscrossing on and off the beat; the banjo and the fiddle neck and neck with one another as the line sang the familiar song. Although the noise from the audience drowned us out at first, I fancied that one could have all but heard the music from the interplay of our gestures and motions alone. The audience gazed up at the five men in blackface in our front line with the kind of adoration and even ecstasy that must have greeted Napoleon riding with a conquering army.
The opener finished, we rode directly in on top of the applause with “River Man,” the five of us singing in our famous harmony:
If I could sing like a river man
I’d take mah Lucy by de hand
Up and down de riverside
Me de husband, she de bride . . .
Eagan played the “Virginia Reel,” which we could not get away without performing, Mulligan essayed “Essence of Old Virginny,” to which he added a perceptible increment of bravado—spurred, I am sure, by Henry’s, or Demosthenes’, presence. I had moved “Fire Down Below” to the first half, and instead we placed Burke, as Brother Rastus, at this point in the second half, to deliver one of his signature monologues in rhyme, half-spoken, half-sung, full of pathos. He quieted the applause that followed on Mulligan by rising and shouting, “Cease!”
The audience immediately began to settle down, and when Burke hollered “Cease!” once more, they were paying attention.
“I has a mournful story to tell you now,” Brother Rastus began.
“And de way you tells it is eben mo’ mournful,” Brother Scamp—Eagan—shouted. Laughter, hoots of derision from the audience. Short-lived, though, because Burke was a favorite, and the crowd knew what to expect.
“Peace be unto you, Brother Scamp. Hold your criticalism until I’se finished wit’ my tale of woe.”
A silence descended now as Burke began.
In Old Virginny, way down South,
I left Old Master there,
And dear old kindly Missus
In her favorite rocking chair.
They were so kind and good to me
But home I would not stay.
I left the old Plantation;
I up and ran away.
I went up North to Boston
And there I made my home
’Mongst barren trees and frozen lakes
And thought no more to roam.
But many nights I dreamt about
The old plantation days
When Master let me serve the guests
On sparkling silver trays.
I longed to see my brothers
And taste a mincemeat pie
And frolic at the quarters
With the girls who caught my eye.
And then one day a letter came
And then my spirits fell.
It read, “Oh Rastus, hurry home;
Old Master is not well.”
I thought of dear old happy days,
Of all the times we had;
I packed my trunk and headed South;
I thought I would go mad.
It was a soft and sunny day
When I hobbled through the gate.
Dear old Mistress greeted me,
“Praise God, you’re not too late.”
Up the stairs we fairly flew
To Master’s sad bedside.
And when I met him lying there,
Old Mistress, how she cried.
But Master, hearing Rastus’ voice
His eyes he opened wide.
“Oh Lord, my prayers are answered!”
And drew me to his side.
“I thought that I should never see
Another happy day,”
He said through shining, blessed tears,
And then he passed away.
And now I live and ne’er shall leave
And never shall I roam.
I’ll serve my dear old Mistress
’Til God shall call me home.
There were no hoots or hollers now. All faces were turned to the stage as if toward the setting sun, full of wonder, nostalgia, regret, several of the men weeping openly.
The show went on. Henry sat still as a tombstone in his chair, staring out into the hall like a half-wit. I saw one or two audience members take tentative note of him. He was perspiring, and the rim of his crushed top hat showed a darkened line of dampness along the base of the crown. We next tore into “De Boatman Dance,” always a crowd-pleaser. One man, near the front, kept a close watch on whatever the lead performer was doing, and he appeared to be acting out in his own mind what he saw on the stage; emotions of pathos and mirth alternated, as if his face were controlled by the actions of the line. When Eagan sang “Boatman,” the fellow sang along on the chorus—
. . . Hi ho, the boatman row
Down the river, the Ohio . . .
—slamming his hands on the back of the seat in front of him, which caused that seat’s occupant to give him a remonstrative glare until he stopped. The man sitting next to him watched with a perfectly blank face, eyes wide, as if transfixed by a vision. Men swung their arms in time to the music, stomped on the floorboards, one man in the aisle danced a jig. On every face was reflected some aspiration, as if we in the line were liberating something in them, giving shape and voice to some hope or memory, some longing or wonder; they were like children watching a puppet show. In some, a strange anger mixed with the high spirits. One woman—there were very few women in the house—stood on a seat and hollered, “You big black nigger! You God damn nigger!” until the man next to her pulled her down, to their neighbors’ riotous laughter.
What Henry could have made of all of this was anyone’s guess. If he thought anything at all, he gave no sign, as he sat there with a look of pure idiocy on his face. On we played, Eagan on the fiddle, myself on the bones, Mulligan on the banjo . . . ourselves and yet not ourselves anymore, either—or had we in fact become our true selves, Scamp, Neckbones, Bullfrog? Who could say? We played and sang and danced under the audience’s gaze, like five moons reflecting the sun’s light, our other half hidden in unfathomable darkness.
Powell finished singing—“I likes my hoe cakes brown in de mornin’.” During the applause, I happened to glance toward the wings stage right, where I saw Gilman and, next to him, Rose, wearing a big smile. It was rare for her to watch a performance. Now Mulligan moved his chair slightly forward and it was my turn to announce him to the audience.
“Kind peoples,” I said, “now de great Bullfrog Johnson is gwine to preform de ‘Cornshuckin’ Jig’!”
“Thank you, Brudder Neckbones,” Mulligan said, launching into the virtuoso piece. He re
ally poured it on, making all kinds of flourishes on the banjo, much to the crowd’s vocal appreciation. I was sure this was a kind of preemptive show of dominance aimed at Henry. Rose was laughing and hollering encouragement to Mulligan.
There was a sudden ripple of disturbance in the audience, attention toward stage right, and I turned and saw that Henry had collapsed in his chair. He was bent forward, his right leg thrown out in front of him. This alarmed me terribly, but a moment later I saw him snap back up exactly into his previous position, with the vacant expression on his face.
This attracted an audible reaction from the audience. Now I kept one eye on him as I clacked along with Mulligan, who had no idea what was causing the murmuring in the hall. Rose stood, in the wings, watching Henry with her hand over her mouth and an astonished expression on her face. Mulligan now returned to the song’s first strain and executed one or two extravagantly ornamented variations. As he did so, Henry collapsed again, like a decommissioned marionette, throwing out his left leg now, and twisting to that side. Again he held still for a moment, then snapped back up into position.
Now a rise of laughter and quickened attention came off the audience, although the other men in our line, with their backs to Henry, had no idea of the source of the disturbance. Many eyes had shifted away from Mulligan to Henry. Sensing that something was afoot, Mulligan turned his head, but Henry was once again still as a statue, and he remained that way until the end of the song.
Another number, a fiddle feature for Eagan, was scheduled before Demosthenes Jones was to make his official debut, but under the circumstances I thought it best to initiate Henry’s routine immediately. I would hear about it later from Eagan, I knew, but I saw little choice.
After Mulligan had finished and was taking his bows—to larger applause than usual—a voice from the back of the theater hollered, “Who’s the nigger with the St. Vitus Dance?” A swell of approval ensued. I gave Powell the nod, and he stepped into the moment.
“Why, Brother Neckbones—who is dat nigger sittin’ there watchin’ while we does all de work?”
Widening my eyes and craning my neck around to regard the still-seated Henry, I replied, “Why, Brother Cornbread, don’t you know? Dat’s Demosthenes Jones, de greatest banjo player what ever played. He is mute as a tree stump and twice as dumb, but he can play de banjar better than anyone!”
“Not better than Bullfrog Johnson!”
“I says he can!” chimed in Burke.
“He can’t!” Powell insisted.
We all started shouting at one another. Eagan, clearly steamed that he had been shouldered out of the way—I could not blame him—was the least enthusiastic of our line. Finally I waved my arms, saying, “Silence! Quiet yo’selves! Dere is one way to find out for sure. Let him play us a banjo tune and den we’ll see.”
Nods, vocal approval.
“Demosthenes!” I called.
Silence. I looked in his direction and saw Henry apparently asleep in his chair. He had improvised this comic twist on the spot, and the audience responded with laughter.
“DEMOSTHENES!” I shouted. “Wake up befo’ I come over dere and hit you wit dis old jawbone.”
Henry pretended to awaken with flailing movements, startled.
“Play us a song on de banjar so we can settle once for all who is de greatest banjar player in de land.”
Henry rose to his feet and, milking the moment, shuffled slowly in his old-fashioned Sweeney costume, carrying the banjo to the front of the stage, wearing a frightened, cretinous expression. I have thought about that moment many times since. Looking out at the expectant crowd, he allowed his features to relax out of the idiotic expression and into one of complicity with the audience. Hefting the banjo into position, he began a very simple pattern, stroking down twice on a low string with his index fingernail, and then plucking once on the short, high string with his thumb, leaving the strings open. Then he fretted one note, keeping the pattern, then choking a string to create two notes out of one stroke. He brought this pattern up to speed, adding notes and beats until what he played became a cat’s cradle of juggled rhythms. Then, with this machine spinning, out of the middle of it he brought, with all the rest of it going on simultaneously, a melody, which all recognized as “Massa’s in de Cold, Cold Ground.” But that song was usually sung as a lament; here it was set out in comic relief, its serious cadences mocked by the rhythmic filigree surrounding and teasing it. A voice from the audience exclaimed “That ties it!” and a swell of agreement rose as Henry lowered himself to one knee, still playing, raising the banjo up like a mother offering a child to a priest, then lowering it back to its normal position and rising once more to his feet, all the while still playing.
The hall erupted in shouts and applause. Finally Henry doubled the tempo, inserting a compact fireworks display of triplets, staggered rhythms, reversed patterns, and, on the last beat, raised the banjo as if it were a rifle, and in place of the final note whacked on the banjo’s head with the flat of his hand as if he had fired the gun. Finished, he let his features slide back into uncomprehending vacancy as the audience rose as one, whistling, clapping, and stomping on the floor. Without acknowledging the crowd, Henry turned and shuffled back to his chair.
It took a full two minutes for the audience to begin to quiet down, and then only after Henry walked slowly back to the front of the stage and reprised the final part of his performance, this time sinking to both knees and bending backward before standing back up, playing all the while.
No individual number could follow this, of course, so we launched into the final ensemble number, “Clare de Kitchen,” which did manage to rouse the audience, although every member was watching the unpredictable Demosthenes, seated once again at the rear, stage right, motionless, while the merriment went on in front. At the very last chorus, Henry shot to his feet and started dancing to the rhythm and playing banjo at the same time, and this pushed the crowd over the edge. When the curtain came down in front of us, we sat staring at it, stunned—I as much as any of us. Gilman came back and told us in great haste to do an encore. A sound like a stampede was making the curtain vibrate in ripples; the crowd was clearly beating on the very stage boards.
Hurriedly we regrouped, set ourselves, and the curtain rose as we launched into a reprise of “Clare de Kitchen” and the ungodly din grew even louder. The audience forced us to repeat this three times, and each time they would not stop until Henry gave out with a new dance.
When the crowd’s appetite had finally been satisfied and the curtain stayed down, the members of the Virginia Harmonists remained seated for a long minute or two, listening to the hubbub of conversation and footsteps out front as the audience made its way to the lobby. The general effect was that of having had a tornado rip through your house while you were eating dinner.
“Well,” I said.
The fellows congratulated Juan García, and I translated. Henry sat, smiling and nodding and saluting the members. Only Mulligan kept silent, watching Henry closely. When he finally spoke, he did so without taking his eyes off of Henry.
“Some fucking Spaniard,” Mulligan said. “Pure instinct. What’s your real name, Juan?”
“Careful, Mulligan,” I said. “These Mexicans are hot-blooded.”
“Oh, rot,” Mulligan said, standing up. “Rot. And that’s no Spanish I’ve ever heard, either.” He walked offstage.
I told the rest of the fellows that I would see them back at the dressing room. When they had left, I was about to speak to Henry in English, barely able to contain my excitement, when Gilman appeared, walking quickly toward us. “Well!” he said. “Well! You, sir, raised the devil himself tonight,” heading straight for Henry to shake his hand. “You are a marvel.”
“He doesn’t speak English,” I said.
“Oh, my. Well, I’m sorry. Bother English, then. Douglass—this man will be part of the show from now on, yes? Please assure me of this immediately. We very nearly had a riot. My Lord . . .” Turning
to Henry again, he took Henry’s hand and said, with genuine emotion, “My congratulations, you are a great artist. Please come back.” He turned back to me. “Please.”
“Yes,” I said, “of course. Absolutely.”
“Excellent, most excellent. A reporter was in the house tonight, by the way, Douglass. From the Bee. Let’s see if we receive a notice.” He didn’t seem to know where to put himself. Indicating Henry, he said, “Please convey my admiration to him.”
“Oh, I’m sure he gets the message,” I said.
“By the way,” the manager added, to me directly, “if Burke duns me for money again I’ll cut off his balls and mail them back to his mother in her Galway whorehouse. Be kind enough to inform him.”
“I will let him know,” I said, cheerfully.
“Yes. Well . . .” Turning again to Henry, he said, “I hope we will see you tomorrow night.”
Henry grinned back, nodded, and shook the manager’s hand, and Gilman left the stage.
Henry removed his hat, which was soaked through. A line of lighter skin appeared across his forehead where the cork had come off. His expression was transcendent. “How was that?”
“How was it? Dear God. I don’t see how we will be able to appear again without you. Mulligan is somewhat out of sorts—understandably, I’d say. But he will get over it. He’s not really a bad fellow. Did you have all of that kneeling and what-not planned out?”
“No!” Henry said. “I thought of it right then.” Now that it was over he could barely stand still with excitement.
“The falling-asleep was a touch of genius. All right,” I said, “let’s get ourselves out of here and repair to Dietmeyer’s for a restorative. I have a feeling the Spanish masquerade will not have a long run, but we may as well maintain it as long as we can.” I was beside myself. My gamble would pay the needed dividends; that was clear. We went our separate ways to clean up—myself to the dressing room, and Henry to Rose’s workroom. Ten minutes later we walked out the service entrance, into the secret alley and, beyond it, the triumphal night.
